


London Rain

by shoesoftennis



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: AU, America As A Son, England As A Father, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-02 06:52:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4050421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoesoftennis/pseuds/shoesoftennis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur Kirkland finds a mysterious baby boy on the London streets and takes him in. He raises him as best he can, and Alfred turns out... pretty well. I think. Maybe you should judge for yourself...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. London Rain and the Baby

Droplets of rain pattered against the street and bustling traffic of London, creating a filler for the loud rumbles of thunder just overhead and clang of shop doors being opened and shut. Overhead, if anyone bothered to look up, one would see the sky gravitated toward a blackened char in the west but lightened to a charcoal nearer to the east side of the capital city. But the rain didn't let up anywhere; for as far as one could drive across London, the clouds would coat the town in water.

Arthur Kirkland knew this in his bones. Even though he was only nineteen and working in a respectable coffee shop near Buckingham Palace, he'd been exposed to London storms since his birth. His mother always told him that he was born when the first crack of thunder shook the foundations of the city in a week. To this day, he didn't believe her, but how to argue with your mother over the time and odd instances of your birth? He decided - every time - to just let it be.

The young man had moved out of his mother's house a month after he finished high school. He had gotten an apartment (thankfully) close to his university and was studying diligently to become a nurse. He found the college lifestyle to require copious amounts of responsibility which Mrs. Kirkland had drilled into her son since early childhood. Although during his younger teenage years it had driven him nuts, Arthur found himself forever indebted to his mother and her old-fashioned upbringing. Arthur had become the perfect gentleman - sweet, conservative, kind, and handsome. Though his classmate Gilbert Beilschmidt may have jested at the invisible stick shoved up Arthur's arse, Arthur viewed himself as proportionately proper and kept.

Unlike his father who had disappeared after the Englishman's second birthday (a greedy wanker with a passion for beautiful women such as Britannia Kirkland), Arthur prided himself in his see-it-through-until-the-end personality. Nothing could be left unfinished, unsymmetrical, unkempt, alone, or useless.

Arthur gritted his teeth as he continued walking, thoughts of his father near-vanished. He hated it when the bitterness froze over his heart - especially on rainy days. Only his favorite Earl Grey tea could solve that problem. It was strange: He remembered nothing about his dad except for his mother's tears after he left. Years of behind-closed-door sobs. Years of behind-closed-door drinks. Years of different men, different hearts... His mother always ended up in the same, broken state as when she began.

He didn't realize he was shaking until the most heart-wrenching sound wrenched him back down to Earth.

The cry of a baby echoed from the alleyway Arthur stood in front of.

The Englishman peered through the haze of rain outside the reaches of his black umbrella. He slowly shuffled forward, following the poor babe's sobs. Trash cans, pieces of litter, wrappers, and delivery boxes sopped on the road, dripping from exposure to the water. For the ghost of a second, the Englishman thought he heard the sharp click of heels coming from the direction he was traveling in, but it disappeared before he was sure. But the baby's screams still pierced the air and rhythm of rain.

Soon, Arthur Kirkland came upon a box with splatters of rain on the top and sides, but it wasn't completely soaked. Sniffles and sobs emanated from the cracks along the top where the flaps had been folded but not taped shut; Arthur ripped those open, revealing a baby wrapped up in nothing but a dirty cloth. The gentleman tore the blanket from the baby's skin, pretty sure the fabric made a home for fleas and ticks and whatever other horrible things cotton can contract. He quickly took off his coat and shirt and wrapped the still-crying darling in the button-down. "I know, I know that's not a lot of protection from the rain," Arthur murmured. "But it's better than nothing." Underneath the disgusting cloth, the poor babe had been stark-naked. Feeling like crying himself, Arthur re-situated his coat over himself again and tucked the baby boy into his chest. He finished by replacing his umbrella back over his head. "I'll take care of you, darling. I swear it, I swear it..."

He rocked the sobbing thing for a minute until it was reduced to sniffling and clinging to the inside of Arthur's covering.

Arthur sighed, glancing back down piteously at the box. A small sticky note was stuck on the inside of the prism; Arthur hadn't noticed it before. He plucked it off, staring at the horrible cursive proclaiming the baby's name: _Alfred Jones_.

As Arthur Kirkland walked back onto the sidewalk, he kissed Alfred's soft head. The baby hadn't even started to grow more than fuzz on his skull, and the Englishman held the boy as if he was more fragile than the finest china. He cradled Alfred to his heartbeat, trying to warm the darling. Thankfully, it seemed Alfred hadn't been out long in the rain; he wasn't freezing cold, but his body temperature could use some adjusting.

The walk to Arthur's apartment seemed longer than usual. Especially after the baby started squirming. Alfred, after he'd warmed to a satisfactory temperature, had started crawling onto Arthur's shoulder and nuzzling into the junction between his neck and said shoulder. The English gentleman had to hold Alfred almost to his hip and had to constantly remold his shirt to the baby's writhing form. Arthur wondered if mothers went insane when they bore sons, and he sighed, looking down at the babe's bright blue eyes. "You're going to be trouble, eh~?" the newfound father mumbled to his adopted son. He lifted the baby up and kissed his cheek. "But can you wait until we reach my apartment to twist and turn, you little spider~?"

For a second, Alfred's blue eyes caught Arthur's jungle-green ones. Then, Arthur smiled gently and looked up, seeing his apartment through the curtain of storm. He shut his umbrella with one hand upon reaching an awning and dug his key out of his pocket.

Once they were inside, Arthur laid Alfred on the floor after splaying out a blanket that had hung over the back of the couch since Arthur moved in. The Englishman sighed, thinking he didn't have any diapers for the baby boy. 'I'll have to get some,' he thought, sitting down to watch Alfred try to flop over onto his back. The boy's chubby limbs flailed, trying to find some kind of purchase on the fuzzy, wool blanket. No such luck.

Finally taking pity on him, Arthur cupped a hand over the boy's stomach and tipped him over. Alfred gurgled, and bubbles cascaded over his tiny lips. Smiling at the adorableness, Arthur used the corner of the blanket to clean his mouth. "I need to get diapers and some clothes for you," he said, "before you pee on everything..."

Arthur shifted onto his knees and rolled the boy into the blanket. "I don't think my shirt will be enough for a second trip outside," Arthur said, going into his room and putting on a sweater. "I have a feeling you'll soil everything I put on you until I invest in some diapers." Smiling gently and balancing the baby on his hip, he grabbed his coat and umbrella again.

Outside, thunder rumbled when Arthur shut his apartment door. He cursed himself for not thinking about the specifics of caring for a baby before; he'd need more than diapers. Bottles, humidifier, cradle, stroller, car seat, clothes, pacifiers... Oh, God, Arthur had his work cut out for him, didn't he? He took another look at the Alfred Burrito; Alfred himself was still gurgling, and when Arthur brought him up to his face, he tilted his head. And then he barfed. All down Arthur's coat and sweater and chin.

Oh, yeah. He had his work cut out for him. He opened one eye to look at Alfred who burped. He looked at Arthur with the most innocent eyes the Englishman had ever seen. Sighing, Arthur found a smile tugging at the corner of his lips again, and he opened his apartment door again. "Well, I guess you soiled everything I was wrapped up in," Arthur commented, still cradling Alfred with the utmost care.

Alfred giggled happily.


	2. Better Than People

"You did WHAT?" Gilbert exclaimed, his eyes growing wide. "You... you FOUND a kid on the street and took him in??? Like, like, you found a BABY???"

"Yes, now would you shut it? You're making a scene," Arthur mumbled as he and Gilbert entered the lecture hall for their first class. A few students looked up at Gilbert's Prussian-accented voice, but most - once realizing it was Gilbert making all the racket - ignored the pair's existence.

Gilbert completely ignored Arthur's suggestion and just stared at him, crimson eyes wide as saucers. "Where's the kid staying now? You didn't leave at home alone, did you???" the albino asked, his hands gripping Arthur's shoulders. He shook the blonde, gritting his teeth. "You didn't, DID YOU???"

"No!" Arthur growled, shoving Gilbert away. "No, you idiot! I did not leave him home alone, I gave him to my mother for her to watch while I'm at school."

"Oh, that's worse," groaned Gilbert. The albino facepalmed, then ran a hand through his silver hair. He looked up at Arthur, trying to communicate something although he knew Arthur wouldn't get it.

Despite being classmates at the university for the last one-and-a-half semesters, the two hadn't gotten on best-friend terms. They both were icy toward people they just met, and though Gilbert could come across as a people-person, he usually messed it up through some means of miscommunication. And Arthur Kirkland? Let's just say he was the master of the Prussian's screw-ups, so their friendship was rocky at best. Still, it was better than being alone and talking to no one for both of them. So they got along as best they could manage.

"How is that worse, you twit?!" the Englishman hissed, plunking his stuff down at his assigned desk. "For God's sake, I found the child! I should be able to do what I think is best for it!"

"Oh, and you call it an 'it'," mumbled Gilbert. He sighed heavily, leaning philosophically against Arthur's desk. "That's good for the boy's development. Tell me, Englishman, what do you know about raising a child?"

"More than you," Arthur scoffed, ripping open his binder to a clean sheet of notebook paper. "Now if you'd kindly walk along to your seat and leave me at PEACE-"

"You think I don't know anything about children?" Gilbert's voice had turned poisonous - a witches' brew hauntingly pouring from some deep, dark form of anger. The Prussian glared daggers at his friend, bumping his hip away from the desk and righting himself on his feet. "What do you think I am, a barbarian? A neanderthal from some Hydra scientific experiment where they were trying to make a new form of demon? I have feelings too, ya know, and I have a family. In fact, I have a baby brother who I adore and love to death." A fire blazed in Gilbert Beilschmidt's eyes, and it made Arthur want to shrink back into the corner. He hadn't ever seen this level of anger come from the albino, but he wanted it to burn out.

Arthur shook his head, gently prodding the other's chest. Gilbert had leaned over the Englishman as he spoke, appearing ten times taller and more intimidating than usual. "Oy, I didn't say any of that, old chap," Arthur said quietly yet firmly. "Don't put words in my mouth."

A small part of Arthur Kirkland's brain whined about Gilbert's spout, but the main part of the Englishman's mind had already formed a hypothesis. Even though it had been some years since the end of WWII, Gilbert must have endured some kind of teasing or stereotype about German-Prussian peoples once coming over to England. Arthur wasn't relying too heavily on this idea, but whatever caused Beilschmidt to say that must have embedded itself deeply in the albino's psyche. Gilbert stepped away from Arthur, giving the gentleman room to breathe. "Sorry," the German said, shaking his mess of hair. A lock of silver flopped in front of his red eye, and Gilbert pushed it away lethargically. "Sorry, man. I don't know what got into me. Didn't mean to take that shit out on you..."

Arthur nodded knowingly. "You were teased as a child, I understand," he said, taking his seat as the professor stepped up to the podium several rows below the two men. He held up a hand before Gilbert could protest about how he was "too awesome to be bullied". "Just go sit down, Beilschmidt. I don't need you getting community service again."

Huffing in annoyance, Gilbert stomped down the rows filled with desks to his seat directly in front of the professor.

Dr. Kiku Honda began his lecture a minute after the bell, letting everyone get settled and quiet before explaining the changing demography of Europe during the Bubonic Plague circa 1300. Arthur vaguely remembered covering this in a broad overview during his high school career. Why did he have to take this course again? It seemed Human Geography correlated almost directly to World History but with very minute differences and emphasis on the diffusion of languages, cultural traditions, and architectural styles. Though the professor had a knack for teaching in a soft monotone, at least he was discussing a slightly interesting topic. The content covering the beginning of time had not been semi-interesting past the Neolithic Revolution. Although the Indus River Valley had indoor plumbing, they didn't do much besides plan cities and get wiped out by natural disasters. 'Some advanced civilization they are when they can't handle one flood,' Arthur had thought to himself.

Before he knew it, his mind had wandered from the the Bubonic Plague to the death tolls in infants to baby Alfred. He wondered how his mother was taking care of Al and whether or not the babe had barfed on her or not. He let slip a little chuckle and immediately regretted it, seeing as the student next to him had looked up and cocked an eyebrow. The shoulder-length blonde hair on the onlooker wasn't familiar to Arthur; had this guy been next to him all year?

"Are you thinking about a girl, hmm~?" he asked, his voice lilting with a French accent.

Arthur nearly jumped back. What was a FRENCHIE doing here in England? And at an English university no less! Didn't they have colleges in that smelly cheese wheel of a country? Arthur sniffed haughtily and hissed back, "No, I was NOT. Why would I be thinking of something so vulgar?"

"What is vulgar about women~? Or... do you not like them~?" the Frenchman purred, leaning an elbow on his desk.

"Excuse me! I like females just fine!" Arthur retorted, his face burning fire-engine red. "What are you even doing here? Aren't you French supposed to stay on YOUR side of the sea?"

"Hmm~ You are stuck in your horrible Victorian heritage, aren't you~?" The blond froggy settled back in his chair, throwing a calculated smirk in Arthur's direction. The lewd expression made a shiver crawl up the Englishman's spine, and he didn't like it one bit. Arthur nearly stuck his tongue out at the blonde. Honestly, what gave this guy any right to talk to Arthur? He wasn't exempt from the universal rule of No Talking When The Teacher Is. Obviously, the Frenchie was a narcissist and had no regard for regulations if he wouldn't benefit in any way, shape, or form.

"Could you please BE QUIET?" Arthur hissed, his green eyes blazing.

Down below at the podium, Professor Honda looked up and saw the warring boys. He nearly sighed but decided to keep it to himself. After all, there were only three more months to go before the end of school, so why did he care? Still... the fact that they would disrespect him... Trying his best to shake it off, Kiku Honda went right on teaching, his monotone now adorned with a sharp edge.

Gilbert caught onto it slowly. He nearly raised an eyebrow when the professor passed him, but he merely watched Honda make his rounds around the podium and in front of the first row of students. The man's brown, usually-emotionless eyes now held something that even Gilbert could pick out without much trouble - irritation. He wondered what on earth could make Kiku Honda mad.

Finally, he heard the swell of a British-accented voice which quickly disappeared into an embarrassed hush. Professor Honda had finally stopped instructing, and a flush had appeared on his pale cheeks.

"Pardon me, Kirkland-san and Bonnefoy-san, but what may be the problem?" Honda asked, his voice loud and clear.

A pen dropped somewhere in the northeast corner of the room, and the class's hyper-sensitive ears picked up on it. Heads turned towards the noise and in the direction Kiku was mercilessly staring. A hundred pairs of eyes settled on Bonnefoy and Kirkland, watching the shorter blonde one squirm in his seat. The Frenchman had sat up straight, smiling charmingly at Honda.

"Forgive us, monsieur~ Mr. Kirkland was only asking to borrow a pencil~" Bonnefoy said, his voice almost seductively deep. Arthur wondered if it had always sounded like that, or if Bonnefoy - that was his name, wasn't it? - was just playing to their audience.

Professor Honda's eyebrows cocked, and he sighed softly. "Your conversation about this pencil went on longer than it should have. Next time, Kirkland-san, could you please keep your voice down? I could hear you all the way up here, and you are sitting in the top row," Kiku scolded, stone-faced. "Now, please, no more distractions. I would like to get through this lesson." And then, he went on about the Bubonic Plague, the Mongols, and rats.

Blushing madly, Arthur Kirkland stooped low into his seat, distressed. Great. The Frenchie had made the Japanese professor think he was irresponsible. Not the best way to start out the day.

Ten minutes after Honda's scolding, the Frenchman leaned over and murmured to Arthur, "I suppose we got off on the wrong foot. My name is Francis Bonnefoy, I just transferred majors. I don't want to make any enemies my first day..." He smiled almost shyly.

Arthur sighed grudgingly and held out a hand. "My name is Arthur Kirkland, and I understand the feeling. Don't worry, I won't hold anything over your head," he said as the Frenchman shook his outstretched hand warmly.

"Merci," Francis said, relieved.

"Yes, yes," Arthur mumbled. "Now, kindly shut up. I don't want to have to say I lost the 'pencil' you gave me."

Francis held up his hands in surrender, smirking slyly. "Ah, oui~ We wouldn't want that~"

* * *

 

"I think I like babies much better than people," Arthur told Alfred as the baby lay comfortably in the Englishman's arms.

Alfred gurgled in response, his blue eyes bright and happy. He stiffly waved his chubby little arms and squished his face up against the breast pocket of Arthur's shirt.

At that moment, Mrs. Britannia Kirkland walked in, her hair pulled back into a loose bun. She surveyed the sight in front of her and smiled gently; she always knew her son would make a great parent. Though these were odd circumstances, she decided maybe that's just what God preferred for human circumstances in general.

Arthur looked up at his mother. "I'm sorry, I forgot to ask this when I came in, but... was he good?" He gestured to Alfred who's eyes had shut slowly. They kept snapping back open only to fall closed once again. "He's kind of like a spider, and he can't even roll over on his own yet."

"Ah, Arthur," Britannia said, her smile growing, "he's a boy~ And in reality, babies aren't easy to take care of~ He was fine after he took his nap and had the fifth bottle you left him."

"Wh-... He had all five by three o'clock??" Arthur said, thinking of all the milk he'd warmed up for Alfred this morning. Honestly, even as a baby the boy had the stomach of an elephant. "What did you do afterward, Mother? Alfred, what the... Why do you eat so much?" He rocked the now-dozing Alfred softly, sighing heavily.

"You underestimate me, Arthur~" teased Mrs. Kirkland as she came over and laid a seasoned hand on the baby's head. "I merely warmed up bottles myself. I'm not completely incapable of child care, you know~" She leaned down and kissed Arthur's head lovingly.

"Oh... yes, I'm sorry," he said, kissing his mother's cheek back. "I just got worried."

Britannia Kirkland nodded, her eyes flickering with amusement. "You're growing up," she said simply, then walked out of the room.

Once she was gone, Arthur rolled his eyes. Sometimes he wondered why mothers had to be so cryptic about those "You're growing up" statements. "Oh, well," he whispered to baby Alfred. "I guess maybe I'll know when you're grown. Or when you're not and I just think you are. Ah... God, I'm confusing myself." He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Al's forehead. "Women, Alfred. Women and mothers - they're something else, all right~"

"Arthur, are you talking about me to your son?" Britannia Kirkland called from the kitchen.

"No, Mother!" Arthur said. He chuckled and whispered to himself, "Maybe a little~"


	3. The Plan

During his sophomore year of college, Arthur found out Francis had been left quite the surprise. The man was an obvious womanizer, but he'd had one girlfriend who he'd really gotten attached to. However, she left for unknown reasons (even to Francis) three years prior. Her apology was sent in the form of a baby by the name of Matthew Williams. She'd dubbed Francis the father, and the Frenchman had dutifully taken on the responsibility of caring for the child.

Arthur felt bad for the baby. Although Francis nurtured it fine, Arthur couldn't shake the feeling that he despised Francis raising anyone; maybe it was because he and the Frenchman could only get along at certain times. But usually, Arthur hated the blonde with all his heart and soul. He didn't want someone ELSE turning out like Francis Bonnefoy. But what could he do? Legally, Francis was caring for the baby perfectly, and Arthur couldn't have custody of it even if he wanted. Unless Francis died, of course, because the Frenchie - stupidly - had affectionately named Arthur Kirkland the godfather. A feeling of utter kindness must have arrived with Matthew, and Arthur must have been the first Francis thought to extend that hand of nicety to. But seriously. What was Francis thinking when he named ARTHUR the godfather?

Sighing at the recollection of the event, Arthur tipped his head back onto the couch. He heard the sound of Alfred's footsteps on the apartment floor and looked up in time to see the blond little boy tumble into the living room. "Ar'ur!" the one-year-old babbled, his blue eyes lighting up in recognition.

Arthur smiled at the toddler and swept him up into his arms, gently tickling the boy's sensitive stomach. "How do you do, Alfred~?" Arthur cooed, smiling at Al. "You're getting good on those legs now, aren't you~?"

"Ar'ur!" Alfred giggled again. He latched his arms around Arthur's neck quickly before letting go and tumbling cheerfully off of the Englishman's lap to the floor. He looked stunned he'd fallen, and Arthur was afraid he'd start crying, but instead, Al wobbled upwards and moved a few steps toward the corner of the coffee table.

"Alfred, you're going to-" Arthur sighed when Alfred's head hit the corner of the coffee table.

The baby toddled back, his eyes flashing wide. He looked surprised, and Arthur waited for him to start sniffling.

This had happened at least once a day ever since Alfred learned how to walk: Baby Alfred would walk into the corner of the table, bump his head, sit down, and wail until Arthur sang him a lullaby.

Tears pricked at Alfred's eyes now, and he looked up at Arthur pitifully. His expression conveyed something along the lines of, "I want comfort, and you're the closest thing to give that to me."

Arthur Kirkland sighed heavily again; he leaned down and picked up the now-snuffling baby. Snot dripped from Alfred's nose, and Arthur exhaled again, taking a tissue from a box sitting on the table to the right of the couch. "Okay, okay," the English gentleman said, wiping boy's nose. "Shh, I will sing to you if you don't-"

Alfred's mouth opened wide, and his eyes closed before a piercing wail echoed around the room. "Alfred!" exclaimed Arthur. He patted the baby's back and started singing, having no other choice. (The neighbors would get mad if he just let Alfred cry and make so much noise.)

 

_"Close your eyes tight and let your head fall._

_The pillow's right there, go ahead, your heart won't stall._

_You will drift into dreamland; my love will call_

_You back home with the breakfast haul._

 

_Close your eyes tight and breathe in deep._

_The ivy has grown farther; now don't you look green._

_Baby, here is somewhere you can rest and steep_

_In a soup of happiness and forget that the shadows creep._

 

_Close your eyes tight,_

_And forget there's no light._

_Tomorrow will come if you turn right._

_Tomorrow will come if you turn right."_  

 

The screaming reduced itself to sniffling, and Alfred's tears dried into rivulet-shaped tattoos. Arthur wiped the baby's nose and corners of his eyes one last time before bouncing him softly on his leg. "There! See? Aren't you better? You're not hurt~" Arthur murmured gently. He kissed his son's forehead just as the telephone began to ring.

Grunting in irritation, Arthur Kirkland stood up and balanced Alfred on his hip. Then, the Englishman - grumbling - stepped into his kitchen and tugged the receiver up to his ear. "Hello?" he said, feeling Alfred start to squirm.

"Bonjour, Eyebrows!" a French-accented voice exclaimed cheerfully. "It is your classmate, Francis Bonnefoy! Surely you know moi, but I thought a proper introduction would suit you better~"

If Arthur had had a free hand, he would have most certainly facepalmed. What the hell was Francis doing calling him? "Francis, what are you doing? How did you get my number?" Arthur asked, trying to remember if he'd accidentally given the frog his number. No, he couldn't recall giving the snail-eater anything - much less his phone number.

"Oh, I called in some favors~ But besides that, Arthur, what would you say to letting Matthew and Alfred have a playdate~? They would get along so well, I'm sure of it~!" Francis inquired.

Arthur could practically see Bonnefoy's blue eyes sparkling with hopefulness."A playdate for the tots, eh?" Arthur said, looking down at Alfred who's face had somehow ended in the crook of Arthur's elbow. "Well, I guess it... couldn't hurt. But Matthew better not act like you, Frenchie. I don't want any bad influences around Alfred!"

"Oh, oui, oui," Francis sighed. "Matthew doesn't act like me - not in the least. He's a quiet darling but cute as anything you've ever seen! Hmm, and while they're playing, maybe we can do something too~ Sound good, Arthur~?"

For a second, all Arthur Kirkland could do was splutter. It took him a minute to collect his bearings before his face flushed the brightest crimson. "NO!!! You won't be allowed into my house if you keep up that disgusting attitude, Frenchman!" Arthur shouted, jostling Alfred's poor little eardrums.

The baby whimpered, then pushed his ear into the crook of Arthur's elbow where his forehead had once been. Arthur didn't even notice Alfred's distressed state and growled out at Francis, "We'll talk tomorrow, you stupid Frenchie. And you better have straightened out by then... LITERALLY."

Then, Arthur hung up and hugged his baby close. Alfred sniffled again, nuzzling his pudgy face into Arthur's shoulder. The Englishman stroked the short hair on Alfred's head and sighed, kissing the blond boy's cheek softly. "Francis is an idiot," he mumbled. He walked back into the living room, bouncing Alfred and patting his back. "But... to say the least, he is attractive," Arthur muttered. He wanted to punch himself for saying that, but it was true. Arthur couldn't deny he felt the oddest, masochistic attraction to the Frenchman; Francis' comments on Arthur's eyebrows hit home, but he loved them. He also loved the jabs at how bad English cuisine was, and how all Englishmen had bad teeth. He hated the commentary, but it tugged at his heartstrings in the most sickening of ways. Francis made him want to throw up and pant like a dog at the same time; it was the worst relationship Arthur could have ever imagined. But it had driven like a stake through his heart, and Arthur found himself hungry for the cuts and sores and scars. Still, he would fight it till the end of time to keep himself from living life like his mother - abandoned and always needing someone's attention to make up for the hole someone else had ripped out of her.

Shuddering at the horrifying thought, Arthur Kirkland sat with his baby on his lap. He closed his eyes, feeling Alfred lay down on his stomach. He patted Alfie's back gently and let his mind drift, and soon he was dreaming of kissing Francis while ripping his long, blond hair out.


	4. The Playdate

"Now." Arthur stared into Francis' challenging, blue eyes. "What were you jabbering about yesterday on the phone?"

Francis' blue eyes twinkled mischievously, his hands stuffed into his pockets. "You hurt me, you know. When you hung up," Francis said, his smirk barely concealed.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "You're an idiot. I'm not getting into a relationship with you, and I'm not even sure letting Alfred and Matthew have a playdate is a good idea. Especially with YOU in the room," Arthur said, shifting his weight to his left foot. He gave Francis a good stare-down while the longer-haired blonde thought it over.

"Okay, mon cher," Francis chuckled. "I will not leave Matthew with you~ I don't trust that he won't come away dumber."

Thoroughly irritated, Arthur nearly flipped Francis the finger. "You're not any smarter than me, Francis," Arthur hissed. "And I have a feeling I'M more intelligent by far, so you have no room to talk like that. I'm a brilliant Englishman, and you're just a Frenchman far from home."

For a minute, Francis just glared at Arthur. Finally, he smoothed a hand through his hair and whipped around, stalking toward the Commons. "I'm bringing Matthew sightseeing on Saturday. Join me at Big Ben at noon or do not. It is your choice, brilliant Englishman."

The poisonous sarcasm in Francis' tone made Arthur's eye twitch. 'What a twat,' he thought as the bell for first period rang. 'Oh, lovely! I have to sit by the wanker for two hours.' _  
_

He trudged after Francis, actually feeling the weight of the ever-gray London sky. He didn't WANT to see Francis at noon on Saturday, but he was afraid that if Alfred didn't have any friends, the baby would turn out to be anti-social. And Arthur, of course, didn't want that, either. 'Fine, Frenchie, I'll go,' he thought as he entered the lecture hall. 'But this is for my baby, not for me.' Though... he couldn't help that his heart beat a little faster when he thought of spending a few hours with the handsome Frenchman.

* * *

 

"Hello."

"Bonjour, mon ami~!" Francis gave Arthur a starry smile and turned to face him, a baby in a no-hands carrier strapped to his chest.

Arthur gave the baby a onceover, seeing a chubby-faced baby with curly, sandy-blond hair and odd, purple eyes. The baby - presumably Matthew - gurgled a little when he saw Arthur but didn't smile. Instead, he reached up and put his hands on his head; Arthur noticed a curl stuck out of the baby's head. He nearly tilted his head, but since that would be rude, refrained. Instead, he nodded at Francis. "Yes. So, what sights do you have in mind for today?" Arthur asked almost coldly.

Alfred, also in a stroller, rolled over and tried to look at Francis. Instead, his foot slipped, and he fell facedown onto the blanket beneath him. For a second, he just laid there - shellshocked - then turned back over and sniffled up at Arthur. "Now don't give me those crocodile tears," Arthur huffed, leaning down and patting the baby's head. He rolled his eyes but gave a little smile.

"I just saw Arthur Kirkland smile!" exclaimed Francis mockingly, still smiling like a goof.

The Englishman looked up at Francis and smacked his head. "I smile a lot, idiot," he said. "Now, as I asked before, what sights are you planning on seeing today?"

"Oh, oui, oui!" Francis said, nearly jumping at the question. He counted on his fingers as he said them, "Buckingham Palace... We already saw Big Ben... the London Eye, Palace of Westminster, the Tower Bridge, and the British Museum."

Arthur nodded. "All right, I'll hail us a cab, then," he said. He rolled Alfred to the side of the road and, using his inner Londoner, hailed a cab without much trouble. (Although he did narrowly avoid being splashed by the car that stopped in front of him.)

Once the four were situated in the backseat of the cab, Arthur told him the destination. "Buckingham Palace must always come first," he said. "It's a national treasure."

"Yes, I am aware of that," said Francis, gently patting Matthew's chunky leg. The baby looked up at his father and gurgled a little. A small smile drifted over little Matthew's mouth, and when Arthur looked down at his own baby, Alfred was smiling too.

Alfred reached out for Matthew, able to touch Matthew's foot before the other child blinked his eerie, lavender eyes at him. Being the happy child he was, Alfred just bounced in Arthur's lap, grinning all the while at his new playmate. He tried to crawl over to Matthew, but Arthur picked him up and blew raspberries on his neck. "No," he said. "You might fall off the seat and hit your head, and we wouldn't want that~"

For the second time that day, Francis saw Arthur smile. And the Frenchman quite liked it. Arthur always seemed like a twisted, depressed, little shit, but Francis wondered if maybe Arthur just never smiled because he didn't have a reason to. 'I guess I don't help much either,' he thought, looking down at Matthew. The baby patted Francis' cheeks and giggled softly. Francis heard Alfred shriek happily when Arthur blew raspberries on his neck, and Francis wondered why Matthew never made a sound like that. He looked down at his son and nuzzled the baby's cheek. "I suppose you will just be a quiet one, non~?" Francis murmured, his smile growing as the baby's did. Something about these helpless little children made Francis' heart swell; he knew he was a sucker for cute things, but he didn't really care. And he supposed, a bit grudgingly, that although Arthur was a grump, he was a very cute grump.

Chuckling to himself, Francis looked over at Arthur, drumming his fingers on Matthew's back delicately.

Arthur shot Francis an instinctual glare. "What are you laughing about, frog?" he snapped. 

Alfred gave Francis a smile and shrieked, then rocked back until his back touched Arthur's lap. Francis smiled at Alfred before shrugging and giving Arthur a frown. Francis could play games; he loved them almost as much as he loved his own reflection. "Nothing that doesn't involve you~" Francis chuckled.

Arthur's cheeks heated up, and he would've smacked Francis had Matthew and Alfred not been present. Instead, he pouted and glared daggers at his natural enemy. "Right. Because you can't think of anything else besides me," Arthur said, his attempt obviously accepting Francis' challenge.

'It is on, Mr. Kirkland~' Francis mused silently. "Just like you can't think of anything besides ME, Black Sheep of Europe~?"

"Oh, you INSOLENT LITTLE FRENCHMAN!!!"

"I'm not little~ Not at all~!"

"Not in front of the children, you sick monster!"

"Oh, Arthur, they can't understand us!"

"But if they could-"

"If they could, you and I would both be horrible fathers."

"...Touche."


	5. First Day of Reception Pt. 1

"Arthur! Arthur! C'mon, I'm ready to goooo!" Alfred whined, his sandy-blond hair shifting into his eyes as he tugged on Arthur's arm.

"Yes, yes, Alfred, I know," Arthur sighed, spitting toothpaste into the sink. "You've told me several times."

Alfred whined softly. He looked up at his caretaker with piteous, bright blue eyes. "Pleeeease, Arthur, hurry up?" This time, the lad actually asked instead of commanded.

Arthur wiped his mouth with a towel and ruffled Alfred's hair. "Don't worry, Alfred, we'll be there in plenty of time," he said as he jerked on a black blazer. He combed over his large, bushy eyebrows once more before picking up Alfred and fixing his dress shirt with one hand. "Good job on the buttons," he said, smiling softly. "The first dress shirt I put on, I messed up these buttons bad~ My mother had to fix them~" He chuckled, meeting Alfred's curious eyes.

"You'll be there to pick me up after school, right, Arthur?" Alfred said as the Englishman put the lad down and took his hand.

"Of course, Alfred," Arthur replied. He opened the door to the sidewalk and let Alfred's bouncy energy blow through the roof. Arthur was tugged down the semi-crowded streets until they reached Elderberry's Primary School.

The school's front entrance was made of a gorgeous, red brick, its doors large and grand. Kids in uniforms flowed in, their blazers, white shirts, and skirts or pants flowed gently in the late summer breeze. Columns held up the overhang of brick below the second-story windows, supporting the elegance of the school. It seemed to Arthur (even before he'd applied for Alfred to go here) like a Catholic cathedral. He was surprised to not see rosaries hanging out of some child's jacket pocket.

Just before Arthur and Alfred entered through the wrought-iron gate, Arthur bent down and looked into Alfred's blue eyes. "I wish I could stay with you, Alfred," he said, smiling a little. "But I can't, so you're going to have to be a big boy and do this on your own."

Alfred, who hadn't seemed the least bit worried all morning, bit his bottom lip. "Are you sure you can't stay with me, Arthur?" Alfred murmured, looking down at his hands he'd clasped in front of him.

"I have to go make money, so we can have a roof over our heads," the Englishman replied. He ruffled Alfred's hair gently before patting the boy's shoulder. "Don't worry, you'll do absolutely fine. All the kids will love you, just like I do." He chuckled and took Alfred's hand. "Why don't we walk in together? I don't have to go to work yet."

His adopted son looked up at him and then at the school, his face set into a determined smile. "All right, let's go!" he said.

"All right," laughed Arthur as he was tugged onto the school's grounds. As his adopted son pulled him, he thought of all the work he'd had to do to get Alfred accepted. The late nights spent signing adoption documents, proving his ability as a parent, worrying that Parliament might take Alfred away from him. Thankfully, all had worked out for the better, and Arthur was just proud to see his little son run confidently into school without a doubt. "Good luck, Alfred," he added as the lad let go of his hand and followed the swarm of children into the auditorium where they would be formally greeted.

Alfred looked back and waved, his bright smile warming Arthur even more than the sun. He knew what he felt was cheesy, but he couldn't help it; having a child really brought out the best and corniest in you. Shaking his head and grinning, he waved back and then turned around, his hands stuffed into his pockets.

"You stupid dummy bastard, you're not going to stay with me?!" an angry, Italian-accented voice yelped. "You did this last year, too!"

Arthur's head jerked up. He saw an amusing sight in front of him; a little boy a bit older than Alfred stomped on his father's foot. The boy's face was bright red from anger, and it didn't seem to help that his dad brushed off the violent action without so much as a wince. "You Spanish bastard, why won't you stay with me?! You're leaving me alone like my mother did!" he shouted, his golden-brown eyes pricking with tears.

" _L-lo siento_ , Lovino!" his father said, trying to hug the boy who squirmed uncomfortably out of his arms.

Arthur picked up on the language immediately. Were they both Spanish? Arthur had thought for sure the boy was Italian... Then again, was "I'm sorry" the same in both Spanish and Italian? He couldn't be quite sure; he hadn't studied the Romantic languages in college.

And also... How did Lovino learn the word "bastard" so early? He couldn't be more than seven years old. Arthur shook his head and just watched them, still interested. How were other kids so different than Alfred? Arthur always assumed every child was as golden-hearted as his son, but he guessed not. Still, the Spaniard looked almost regretful that he had to leave his obnoxious son.

After the father apologized, Lovino huffed and stomped away. He turned around at the highest step to the front door and turned around, his face quieted and sullen. "I will see you after school, Antonio," he said grudgingly. And then he walked inside, stomping down the hall in his little red, white, and green sneakers. Arthur found it charming they were the colors of the Italian flag.

'So he must be Italian, right?' he thought.

Arthur studied the Spaniard; Antonio ducked his head down and sighed, his eyes closing remorsefully.

Feeling a twinge of sympathy for the man, Arthur clapped his hand on Antonio's shoulder. "Don't worry, mate, I'm sure he's already forgiven you," Arthur said, giving his companion-in-the-paternal-kingdom a half smile.

"Oh...  _Si_ , you are probably right, mister," Antonio said. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "It's just... I adopted him last year from Southern Italy, and he absolutely DESPISED this school the moment he stepped inside it. I stayed with him for the first day, but my boss would have gotten mad and fired me if I hadn't shown up the next day, so..." He sighed again. "I had to leave him the next day, and he got so mad he punched me in the family jewels." _  
_

Chuckling, Antonio continued after a while, "I do not know what to do with him! He wants me there, but then he doesn't, and it's all so confusing! Maybe it's the Italian personality, I do not know... Anyway!" The Spaniard smiled brilliantly. "Do you have a little one?"

"Well, I wouldn't be here if I didn't. I'm not a pervert," Arthur said, his voice slightly defensive.

Antonio blinked at the Englishman before smiling. "Oh,  _si_ , I know you are not a pervert," he said. "What I meant to say was, what grade is your little one in?"

"He's a first year," he said automatically, having rolled it over in his head since Alfred had turned four. He really COULDN'T believe how fast Alfred was growing up. And it sounded cheesy, but the boy had only mastered the construction of a sentence yesterday, and now he was going to learn the alphabet. _  
_

"Ah. Well, mine's a little older than yours," Antonio replied. He opened his mouth to say something else, but Arthur butted in,

"What are you implying?"

His green eyes burned holes in Antonio's shirt, and the Spaniard shivered indecisively. Was this man crazy? He obviously was, right? Lovino was a little bit older than Alfred by a year, perhaps. "I-I'm just saying that Lovino-" Antonio began, but Arthur cut him off again,

"Whatever."

The Englishman stuck his hands haughtily into his pockets and stomped away, his nose turned up high like a snooty rich boy. Antonio just watched him go, slightly confused. That man had too much pride, and Toni found himself wanting to punch him for it. He couldn't STAND people who couldn't even have a normal conversation without getting offended or boasting.

Sighing and shaking his head, Antonio watched Arthur go with a slight glare. 'Just let it go, Toni. Just let it go,' the Spaniard told himself.

* * *

 

Inside his car, Arthur hugged the steering wheel. He couldn't believe what he'd just done. The poor Spanish man probably thought he needed some kind of medication for his bipolar depression. The muscles in Arthur's jaw twitched. He had been depressed in his teenage years; the memories of thoughts of suicide still reared up every once in a while and left Arthur feeling swollen with poison yet deflated of all oxygen.

Arthur cleared his head by shaking it. He jammed his key into the ignition and drove away from Alfred's school. He rolled down the windows and let the rush of air tangle his blond locks until he got stuck in traffic. "Dammit," he muttered, honking his horn. Then, he sat back and watched the sun climb higher into the sky. A thin film of gray clouds covered the northwest corner of the sky, and Arthur hoped there wouldn't be a storm today; he'd forgotten to check the weather forecast.

As he neared a building where he'd edit a new history textbook for the rest of the day, he adjusted his tie. He couldn't believe he'd gotten stuck with that douche again. First college, and then his job.

Francis Bonnefoy was getting out of his car just as Arthur pulled in right beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to look up Britain's school system because I'm an ignorant American o.O Anyway, hope you enjoyed! (If you're like me and have trouble knowing what reception is, it's basically kindergarten or the first year of primary school when a child will turn five years old.)  
> 


End file.
